


The Missing Piece

by dmxlfoypotter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drarry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 04:37:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14300973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmxlfoypotter/pseuds/dmxlfoypotter
Summary: After quitting his job as an Auror (and rather ungracefully, at that), Harry Potter downs one too many fire whiskeys in an attempt to distract himself and coming face to face, in a rather unfortunate way, with a particular blond-haired Draco Malfoy.





	The Missing Piece

**Author's Note:**

> My first Drarry fic that I'm (finally) posting! 
> 
> This short piece is entirely composed of common tropes. I wanted to try my own hand at writing longer pieces than I'm accustomed to, so I am completely aware that my writing isn't the greatest. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> The characters included this piece do not belong to me. I'm just a girl writing fan fiction.

When Harry Potter promptly—and rudely—quit his job as Auror, everybody was surprised. Perhaps they thought the boy who once saved the wizarding world’s arse would continue to do it for the rest of his famous life. Perhaps they thought he would be promoted to Head Auror and fight the evil with his lightning scar marking him. As it is, neither of those things were true.

 

Harry was simply tired. 

 

Of death and fighting and blood and the nightmares that kissed him good night. He was tired of going to work expecting death and receiving it. And so Harry bluntly told the Head Auror to stick unspeakable things in unspeakable places and walked out of the ministry.

 

Hell, he still had his robes on—he made a mental note to throw them into the rubbish when he got back to his flat. But first, he needed a drink. And a lot of them. 

 

**< ><><><><>**

 

Seven tall glasses of fire whiskies and several shots of vodka later, Harry Potter was nearly seeing stars as he drunkenly traversed along the dance floor in the bar. Whistles and hollers gave Harry the confidence to keep going, keep dancing, with no thought about the consequences he no doubt will be facing come morning. 

 

“Come on,” a light-haired, pale-skinned stranger said seductively.

 

At first glance, Harry thought it was Draco, but if he had looked any closer, the stranger’s hair was an artificial, too bright blond, and his eyes were a hazel, rather than the steel gray Harry so often seeks. 

 

But Harry was too drunk to notice that the stranger was not the man he thought he was. Something in the back of Harry’s head told him that this was _wrong_ , but he couldn’t think, his eyes wouldn’t focus, and _Merlin,_ he hasn’t bedded someone properly for so long. 

 

“What’s your name, baby doll?” said the man now as he circled his arm possessively around Harry’s waist. “You’re _the_ Harry Potter, aren’t you?”  The man licked his lips. “I look forward to screaming that name tonight.”

 

Oh, _Merlin_.

 

Before Harry could respond, a soft growl interrupted the both of them from advancing their…activities.

 

Harry swiftly turned from sheer instinct and grabbed for his wand—one that wasn’t there, which was probably in his office, and he shuddered at the thought of having to walk back to the ministry with his tail in between his legs because his impulsive self forgot his rutting wand—and found the _real_ Draco Malfoy staring at them with a storm raging in his grey eyes.

 

“Matthew, what the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” Draco all but yelled, yanking Harry and Matthew apart. “And you, _Potter_ , what makes you believe, even for half a second that Matthew would make a good _fuck-buddy_?”

 

Harry looked as shocked as he felt, for this was definitely Draco Malfoy yelling at him and the other man was…Matthew? Harry didn’t know how he made such a mistake. “I-uh. Oh, _shit_. I am so, so sorry—this is a mis…I thought you were someone else.” He was slurring his words, even in this state, Harry could tell he was barely coherent. 

 

“Potter, are you drunk? came Draco’s swift reply. “How much have you had to drink? And why the hell are you here and not doing Auror business?”

 

“I’ve only had a couple, so no, I am most definitely not dru—“  

 

“Sweet Merlin, I can smell the alcohol on your breath, Potter,” sneered Draco, covering his nose with his slender fingers as if the stench was _that_ bad. “You need to get home.”

 

“Or he could come to mine,” Matthew piped up, winking. “I’ll take especially good care of him for the night.” 

 

“ _Matthew_!” Draco shouted, eliciting a laugh from the said man, “Go home, and I’ll deal with you tomorrow!”

 

And so with a quick peck on Harry’s cheek, one that was too swift for Draco to prevent, and a dramatic bow, Matthew apparated away, leaving Harry and Draco for themselves and in the middle of the dance floor. A soft, upbeat song, riddled with complex rhythms and beats, filled the room. 

 

“You and him close?” Harry asked in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone. Here he was, having a decent conversation with the one person who he had loved and hated at one point in time.

 

Draco looked furious, but he visibly softened at Harry’s voice. Maybe Harry had imagined it.

 

“Hardly,” Draco said, and it took all Harry might in order to hide the relief from his face. “He’s my assistant, who insists on following me everywhere. I despise it. You seemed to be enjoying him though, weren’t you?”

 

Harry laughed, a little too loud, but he was too drunk too care. “Actually, I thought he was you—“ and as his words caught up to him, Harry’s eyes opened in horror at what he said, and Draco’s mouth opened wide with shock then settled into a smug smirk. “ _Shit_. I—damn it all to hell. I can’t take it back now—I’m leaving. I—it was nice seeing you Draco, but please take this all to heart— _DON’T,_ that’s what I meant, don’t take it to heart. I didn’t mean it. There is no way that I allowed Matthew to touch me like that because I thought he was you, no way.”

 

And as Harry turned away to walk out the bar, his cheeks a furious shade of red, he heard a chuckle, one that quickly escalated into an entire laughing fit within mere seconds. It was _Draco_. Merlin, Harry didn’t recall a time that Draco ever laughed. And it was the most beautiful sound ever.

 

Surprisingly, Harry found himself approaching the Malfoy once again, though he didn’t share the same amusement at the situation as Draco did. 

 

“It’s not funny,” Harry bit out, watching Draco _guffaw_ like a baboon. 

 

“You—you’re ri…right, Potter. It’s absolute…ly _hilarious_!” Draco looked ridiculous, slapping his knee, and _were those tears in his eyes?_

 

“I’m leaving,” Harry announced and stalked towards the door to make his point. But he barely made it two steps before Draco, wiping his tears with the sleeve of his green sweater, grabbed his arm. 

 

“I’m going with you,” Draco said resolutely, a small smile still playing on his lips. “It’s time I’ve seen the great Harry Potter’s house. It’d make a fantastic story to tell my patients—they’re quite enthralled with you, after all.”

 

“You’re a healer?” 

 

“The head one, at that,” Draco added, and Harry couldn’t trace a hint of arrogance. And inside Draco’s words bloomed a passion and a caring for helping. “After the Dark War, I decided too many lives were lost, and I didn’t want to do that anymore. So I became a healer.”

 

There were so many things that Harry wanted to ask Draco, but as he opened his mouth to utter another question, a gag took over, and Harry Potter, savior of the Wizarding world, defeater of the Dark Lord, retched right next to Draco Malfoy’s pristine shoes, the man for whom he has harbored and hidden intense feelings beginning in his fourth year. 

 

“ _Potter_ ,” Draco chided, shying away from the vomit. “You could have at least _warned_ me. I could have prevented you from throwing up in the first place.” Draco pulled out his wand, muttered a soft spell under his breath, and the mess was gone.

 

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” the green-eyed man moaned. “I think it’s time for me to call it a day and go back to my flat. Malfoy, it was nice—“

 

“Nonsense!” Draco interrupted. “What kind of healer would I be if I allowed an unwell patient out of my sight and susceptible to unseen diseases and viruses? Even worse, what kind would I be if I let _Harry Potter_ out of my sight? I’ll apparate us to your flat. And there’s no need to thank me.”

 

Harry grumbled, “I’m not your patient,” yet he still followed Draco, like a helpless, lovesick puppy, out the bar and into the roads illuminated by the full moon.

 

**< ><><><><>**

 

Bloody hell, the sunlight filtering through the window was _blinding_. What time was it? Heavens, Harry was going to be late to—no, he’d almost forgotten: he was no longer an Auror, after spontaneously quitting yesterday. 

  
As Harry reached for his wire-rimmed glasses on his bedside table, he spotted a tall glass of water—iced, meaning it was only put there recently, and Harry _clearly_ was not the one who poured it. But Harry gratefully drank the water down, and rolled off of his bed, landing on his feet with a soft thud. That’s when he noticed that he was in nothing but his boxers, which was unusual since he usually slept in pajama pants. 

 

He almost stumbled from the sudden realization he came to: Dumbledore’s arse, there was somebody else in Harry’s flat. 

 

Harry crept to the door softly, immediately noting the scent of _eggs?_ wafting in through the cracked door. Maybe he should grab something to defend himself. But Harry wasn’t dead or hurt yet, so the person (apparently making breakfast) most likely wasn’t a convicted serial killer. At least he hoped not. And so Harry opened the door and quietly strode towards the kitchen.

 

Focusing on putting his feet where the floorboards wouldn’t make an agonizing creak, 

Harry completely disregarded the vase situated on the corner of the coffee table. When Harry brushed against the edge of the fine oak, the vase fell to the floor with a terrible crash.

 

“Harry, are you up?” came from the kitchen. Now, Harry did stumble, narrowly avoiding the ceramic shards. Because it was _Draco Malfoy_ speaking; Harry could distinguish that sound from anything.

 

And it wasn’t until Harry, dark hair messy and still shirtless, appeared in the doorway of the kitchen that he believed it, for there, standing in one of Harry’s Gryffindor shirts, was Draco—whose eyes very much conspicuously roamed down Harry’s body.

 

“What the hell are you doing here, Malfoy?” Of all the things that Harry could have told Malfoy, he chose the most ridiculous statement. But Harry could’t help enjoying the sight of Harry’s shirt hugging Draco’s _very fit_ body.

 

“Making you breakfast, _Harry_ ,” Draco said nonchalantly, his fingers curled delicately on the handle of a spatula. He tsked. “I’d prefer if you’d call me Draco. I think we’re far past that point now, after what happened last night.”

 

Harry’s stomach dropped—had they done _something_ last night? Had they _fucked_? It would explain why Harry had only his boxers on and why Draco was in his bloody flat, frying eggs, and wearing Harry’s favorite shirt. Harry couldn’t decide whether he was immensely horrified or immensely pleased; on one hand, he had _fucked_ Draco, and on the other hand, he _fucked_ Draco. Something he had wanting to do for years, and Harry couldn’t even remember it. 

 

Harry felt heat rise up to his cheeks. “Uh, Mal—Draco, did we…?”

 

“Did we what?”

 

“Um, you know…”

 

“Harry, spit it out already. Cooking is a meticulous process and requires intense focus. The less distracted I am, the better these eggs will turn out.”

 

Harry smiled to himself, despite his worries. Draco would always be a perfectionist, through and through. He could almost picture Draco fussing over which wall color would suit their apartment or which rug would complement their furniture the best. _No_. Harry must not think like this.

So Harry took a deep breath, and let it all out. “Dracodidwefucklastnight?”

 

“Merlin, Harry speak slower. I can barely understand you.”

 

“Did. We. Fuck. Last. Night?”

 

Draco turned to face Harry. And promptly began to _die_ of laughter. Draco had to reach out and grab the edge of the quartz countertop to steady himself. Minutes passed of Harry incredulously watching Draco overcome by unending fits of giggles.

 

After the gray-eyed man composed himself, he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life. First yesterday, and now this. Harry, you must be so in love with me.”

 

“Wha—what?” Harry sensed a blush rising up to his cheeks. How did Draco know? Did Hermione or Ron tell him?

 

“You really don’t remember?” Draco asked, tilting his head slightly to the side. Harry shook his head. “Well, we didn’t _fuck_.” Draco reined in a laugh. “I’m sorry—it was really funny. Anyway, how much do you remember?”

 

“I remember apparating here, and that’s about it.”

 

“Gracious, Harry, how much fire whiskey did you have?” Harry opened his mouth to answer, but Draco held up a finger. “That was a rhetorical question; answering it would be pointless. What was I saying again? Oh right. About last night. Alright, you threw up in the toilet for a solid five minutes, and I made you brush your teeth. After, you sat on the couch and confessed all of your secrets. Then you passed out—on the couch—so I carried you to your bedroom. Oh, and I hope you don’t me borrowing this shirt; the one I was wearing wasn’t particularly comfortable.”

 

“Wait—what secrets?” Harry alarmingly demanded. 

 

“About how you absolutely have adored me for the past couple of years.” Draco shrugged. “And about how you’ve wanked to me an—“

 

“I don't want to know what I said!” Harry hid his face in his hands. This was so embarrassing. Not only did he profess his undying love, he told him all about his hidden fantasies. “I—ugh—“ Then a thought hit Harry. “Why are you still here?”

 

“For one, you asked me to. And since you asked so kindly—and because some of those secrets were _sexy_ —I did. And I made you breakfast, so you should be extremely grateful.”

 

“Er—thank you.” Harry forced out awkwardly as Draco gracefully placed two plates filled with ordinary scrambled eggs on the countertop. The two boys seated themselves next to each other. Draco eagerly dug into his food, while Harry kept his hands neatly folded in his lap.

“So…Harry,” Draco said in between bites of egg. “Wouldn’t you care for a bite to eat? I promise that I didn’t _poison_ them.”

 

“Oh—um—yes, of course.” Harry hurriedly said, almost robotically, picked up his fork, to which Draco raised one delicate eyebrow. 

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Perfectly fine.”

 

“You should tell me what’s wrong,” Draco said nonchalantly. 

 

“There’s nothing wrong,” admonished Harry. “These eggs are quite delicious, Mal—Draco.”

 

“Is it because you told me you’ve liked me for the past—well since forever?” Draco asked.

 

At the mention of his drunken confession, Harry’s cheeks reddened with a maddening blush, unintentionally answering Draco’s question. 

 

“I see.” Draco said upon the sight. “Well,” the blonde started casually, “if it makes you feel any better, I’ve liked you too. And I am entirely willing to indulge you in one of your _sexy_ fantasies one day.” Draco winked.

Harry stammered, a string of incoherent sounds and syllables flowing out of his mouth. Draco only shrugged, collecting his and Harry’s plates and placing them in the dishwasher.

 

After Draco assumed his previous position on the barstool, he voiced, “I think a change in topic’s due. Why’d you quit your job at the ministry?”

 

Now this was a question Harry could answer. “It was too much on me, I think. It’s unrealistic to think I can save all of them, right? Everyone expected so much out of me with my most recent case, but I couldn’t save the girl—Draco, she was seven.”

 

Harry’s voice was detached, informative, and emotionless; he’s shed so many tears while the case was still open that he didn’t have anything left in him. Harry had thought that being an Auror would be a rewarding job, one that filled up the empty hole inside of him that’s been there ever since the war. 

 

But it hadn’t.

 

“So I quit,” Harry finished, running a hand through his untamable hair.

 

Draco was speechless for nearly a minute before commenting, “I’m so sorry, Harry.”

 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“Well,” Draco began softly, “it might be too early—considering you only quit your job yesterday—but we would love to use an extra hand around at the clinic. It’d take you some time to become a healer, but I’m sure we could find something for you to do.”

 

“You really mean that, Draco?”

 

“Of cour—“ Draco was abruptly cut off by Harry barreling into his arms and burying his head into the crook of Draco’s neck.

 

“Thank you, Draco.” 

 

In Draco’s arms, Harry found a future—and felt that empty part of him slowly but surely start to fill up.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](https://dmxlfoypotter.tumblr.com)!


End file.
